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THE ROYAL SHIPWRIGHT.

MANY

ANY kings have taken up a mechanical trade as an amusement. Amidst the toils and cares of state they have made a pastime of what has served their subjects for a living. Louis the Sixteenth, the unfortunate King of France, who was beheaded during the Revolution, worked as a locksmith. Charles the Fifth of Spain, who spent a large portion of his life in the vain attempt to crush out Protestantism, and compel Europe to remain under the tyranny of the Pope, amused himself by making clocks and watches. Shortly before his death, finding that he could not make any two of his clocks go exactly alike, he exclaimed, "What a mistake I have made in trying to force all the world to think alike, when I cannot make two clocks go alike!" Another Spanish king was proud of his skill as an embroiderer, and used to spend his leisure time in embroidering petticoats for the Virgin Mary!

Peter the Great of Russia stands almost alone amongst kings as having worked hard at a trade, not for mere amusement, but as an example to his subjects. Up to his time the Russians were scarcely raised above the condition of barbarians. The useful arts were almost unknown amongst them. Education of any kind was rare. The other nations of Europe had little knowledge of or intercourse with the Muscovites, as they were then called. Peter resolved that Russia should become a great nation. He especially desired to make her powerful by sea. To most men this would have seemed impossible, For she had neither harbours nor dockyards, neither sailors, ships, nor shipwrights. Russian territory was shut out from the sea by the Swedes on the north and the Turks on the south. Even if Peter had ships he could not use them unless he could sail them overland. His subjects, too, looked upon the sea and everything connected with it. with great aversion. All their habits were those of landsmen. There was scarcely a man in Russia who would travel by sca unless he were compelled. But Peter would allow of no such word as impossible. Whatever he resolved to do he did in spite of all difficulties. After a series of battles, in which he suffered defeats so numerous and severe that almost any other man would have lost heart and thrown up the enterprise in despair, he succeeded in conquering a considerable extent of sea-coast, with many ports and harbours, from the Turks; and he wrested from the Swedes the territory upon which he afterwards constructed the harbours and built the cities of St. Petersburg and Cronstadt.

This, however, was but a small part of his work. He had still to get ships and sailors. He knew well the power of example. Though an absolute monarch, with the power to compel his subjects to do exactly

what he ordered them, he decided to lead the way in this matter. He was originally very much afraid of the sea. It is said that, when a child, merely crossing a river would throw him into convulsions. This fear was greatly increased by a narrow escape from drowning. But he resolved to overcome it, and this he did so thoroughly, that soon one of his favourite amusements was to paddle himself about the river which flows past Moscow. In more advanced life he was never so happy as when managing a yacht on the Baltic. But without ships his possession of seaports would be useless, so he set to work to construct a fleet.

There is still shown at St. Petersburg a small boat which Peter assisted to build with his own hands. The Father of the Fleet, as it is called, is a yawl thirty feet long, eight feet broad, and can spread three sails. It is kept in the fortress at the entrance of the Neva.

Whenever it is brought forth, royal honours are rendered to it, and it is saluted by the cannon of the whole fleet. From a beginning so small and insignificant as this, the powerful and numerous navy now possessed by Russia has sprung. Of course, very little of the original boat at which Peter worked with his own hands now remains. Most of the old timbers which he sawed and planed have decayed; most of the old nails which he drove in have rusted away. But it is still a very interesting relic which the Russians do well to honour.

As Peter was not too proud to work, he was not too proud to learn; and as there was no one in Russia to teach him, he determined to go abroad for instruction. Having already to go abroad for instruction. Having already sent a number of young Russians into foreign countries to finish their education and gain what knowledge they could of useful arts and manufactures, he set out for Holland. This was in the year 1697, when he was twenty-five years old. Having reached Saardam he assumed the name of Peter Michaeloff, adopted the dress of a Dutch sailor, and engaged himself as a common workman to a shipbuilder named Calf. Here he occupied a common labourer's hut in the neighbourhood of the dockyard, and lived upon the wages which he earned as a ship-carpenter. It is said that during this period he made his own bed, cooked his own food, and lived in all respects like his fellowworkmen, whilst his ambassadors and suite occupied a mansion suitable to their rank.

Not slothful in business;

Fervent in spirit;
Serving the Lord.

ROM. xii. 11.

In one respect, however, he differed from the carpenters amongst whom he lived. Whilst they had no occupation beyond their daily work, he was engaged in conducting the affairs of his vast empire. Despatches were brought to him whilst at his work respecting the march of armies, the organizing of campaigns, and the affairs of state. It was from the dockyard of Saardam that orders went forth to his generals at Azof, which resulted in the capture of Perekop and the Crimea from the Turks. Here, too, he was visited by nobles and statesmen from all parts of Europe.

One of his biographers thus describes the interview represented in the preceding page:

"What a meeting must that have been which took place between him and the Duke of Marlborough at Saardam! For the English noble was well aware that, in the workman Peter Michaeloff, he beheld the undisputed proprietor of a quarter of the globe, the autocrat who had the power of life and death over all its inhabitants; in short, the Czar of Muscovy. Peter was at this time (1697) twenty-five years of age, and is described as a large, powerful man, with bold and regular features, dark-brown hair, that fell in natural curls about his neck, and a dark, keen eye, which glanced from one object to another with singular rapidity. He was dressed on that occasion in a red woollen shirt and duck trousers, and a sailor's hat, and was seated, with an adze in his hand, upon a rough log of timber which lay upon the ground. He was conversing with great earnestness and much gesticulation with some strangers, his countenance displaying, by its strong and varying expression, the interest he took in their discourse. The soldier duke is it not easy to imagine the contrast of costume and character ?-approached and opened a slight conversation by some remarks on the art of ship-building. While they were thus engaged a stranger in a foreign costume appeared, bearing an enormous letter in his hand; the journeyman started up, and, snatching the packet, tore off the seals and eagerly perused it. while the stately Marlborough walked away,

This history teaches its own lessons:Never be afraid of difficulties; a strong brave will can overcome them all.

Never despise small beginnings; rightly used they may lead on to great things. Never be ashamed to learn; he who is too proud to learn will remain an ignorant fool to the end of his days.

Never think honest work a disgrace; Peter the Great gained more true honour by working as a ship-carpenter than by all

his battles.

Never forget that the best kind of teaching is by a good example; if Peter had merely commanded his people to build ships he would have failed, by setting them the example of doing it himself he succeeded beyond all his hopes.

THE ORPHAN SISTERS.

CHAPTER I.

AT a small window, up four pair of stairs,

in a dingy attic room, in one of the worst alleys of St. Giles', sat two girls, Nancy and Mary. They were neat and good-looking, especially the youngest, who was not more than sixteen years old. Nancy, the eldest, looked about nineteen. It was evident that they had seen botter days, and were in sorrow. It was a miserable a miserable dreary room in which they sat; the hot August sun had scorched up a few plants which stood on their window-sill, blighted and sooty from the smoke. Down in the alley below, two dirty women, with their caps loose and arms bare, were quarrelling and fighting; a group of squalid children were watching and laughing at them. A few dingy hens were pecking at some cabbageleaves which had been thrown out of a door opposite. At the end of the court was a stall, at which an old woman sat smoking and selling herrings, sprats, and some cheap fruit. This, wita a narrow strip of blue sky above, completed the view from these poor girls' attic window They were crying bitterly, for they had just returned from following their mother's funeral, and a good mother she had been to them.

Their father had died of a fever some time before, leaving his widow to struggle with ill-heath and poverty. Bravely had the poor woman struggled, and till within a few months of her death had contrived, with her daughters' help, to provide a decent living. She had watched over them, prayed for them, and kept them away from idle low company. But now she was gone! and her orphan girls sat wondering what they must do. As long as the lifeless corpse even lay in the room they did not feel so desolate, but now they had laid her in the grave. A poor funeral it was, such as one may often see in London, for the parish had buried her. First came the coffin, with its dirty white pall, then the parish beadle, and behind him walked Nancy and Mary, sobbing bitterly, and dressed in what stray black things their neighbours could lend them. No one seemed to care for them; some few stared from curiosity, some few kind hearts perhaps from pity. And now they had come back, and sat alone at their window, perhaps not as desolate as they thought they were, for the pitying love of an Almighty Father hovered around them.

"Oh! Nancy, Nancy," sobbed poor Mary, throwing her arms around her sister, "what shall I do? I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot. I do so miss poor mother's pale white face from that bed. Oh! mother, why did you leave us? Oh! mother, mother, do come back to us!" "Hush, Mary; you must not take on so, indeed you must not. Now it is all over we ought to be thankful that dear mother has

no longer any pain. Only think if she
knows what we are doing, how it would hurt
her to see you a grieving in this way,"
added Nancy, her own tears falling fast as
she spoke. Do not fret; we must try and
bear up, and do as we would have done if
mother were alive; above all, let us try and
keep the good name she left us.'

So, with an earnest determination, Nancy
dried her tears, and comforted her sister; and
they set about putting their room tidy, and
making it look as cheerful as they could.

Some months had gone, and a biting winter had come; there in the same attic, looking more scant, and bare, and desolate than before, sat the two orphan sisters; poverty had pinched their checks; their poor hands were so numbed they could scarcely ply their needles.

"Stitch, stitch, stitch," cried Mary; "I am weary of sewing. Will this never end?" and she dropped her hands hopelessly on her lap. "Stitch, stitch, stitch, from morning till night, and yet it scarcely buys us bread to eat. O! that it would end."

It was indeed but a scant living they eked out; up early, and working late by their dim light. Mary's check had grown pale, and at times she coughed badly, and Nancy's heart sank within her as she feared for her darling sister; but a still worse dread had arisen in her mind. Mary was young, good-looking, weary of her occupation, and there had been idle tempters busy, who had been work-girls themselves, half-starved and ill-paid; and it was with a trembling heart and motherly caution that she sent Mary out to take home some work, whilst she finished another garment. She watched her young sister go by with a yearning heart. Soon her needle was laid aside, and she fell on her knees to beseech her heavenly Father to grant her pity and protection, and to send some help and safety for the sister committed to her care.

Who ever called upon God aright, and met not with an answer? Perhaps not exactly as they wished, but in some other way, which God saw was best for them. And so Nancy arose from her knees comforted, strengthened, hopeful; her Bible told her that "when the enemy comes in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord shall raise a standard against him."

A tap at the door interrupted her thoughts, and she opened it to one of those kind district visitors, to whose exertions the poor in London owe so much. On Nancy's invitation she came in, sat down, and looked around her. Her quick, womanly eye told her that poverty and sorrow dwelt here. To her encouraging words and kind inquiries, poor Nancy opened her heart; above all, dwelling on her grief lest her young sister should be tempted from her present life of hard work and ill-fare to join with her ill-advisers. Seeing how very much in earnest Nancy was for her sister's well-doing, Mrs. Maunder

promised she would do her best to get a situation for Mary as a servant, where she would have more air and exercise, and less exposure to temptation. She kept her word faithfully, and in less than a month the last evening came that the sisters were to spend together. The next day Mary was to go to a situation about fifteen miles from London, at a large farm-house, where there were many little children, and part of Mary's duty would be to look after them.

It was a sad evening to both; Nancy felt how desolate she should be when her sister was gone, but she determined not to think of herself if it was for her sister's good; and as Mary laid her check against Nancy's, and sobbed out her grief at leaving her, she offered an earnest, heartfelt, though unspoken, prayer to Him who has called himself the Father of the fatherless. "Mary, dear," she said, "I want you to remember that God can keep and bless you, and that he will take care of us both if we sincerely seek him. Mrs. Maunder has written for you a short prayer. Promise me that you will never let any morning pass without using it. Pray from your own heart, and in your own words as well, but do not fail before you come down in the morning to go on your knees, and offer this prayer at least."

The prayer was as follows:

"O Lord, I pray thee to show me the evil. of my own heart, and make me hate all sin. May I love my Saviour more, and serve him better. Keep me from temptation, for I am very weak; and give me thy Holy Spirit that I may know and do thy will in all things. May I be an honest and faithful servant to my earthly master, and do thou make me fit to be received at last into thy heavenly kingdom. All this I ask, with the pardon of my sins, for the sake of thy dear Son my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen."

Mary gave the promise to do this, and likewise to read, if only a few verses, out of their mother's Bible, which Mary was to take with her, every evening.

"I shall be lone and dreary when you are gone, Mary dear; but that I don't mind if only you are a good girl, and write me a line now and then to say you are happy. Never forget that God's eye is upon you-Thou God seest me'-and that for Christ's sake he will keep and bless you." So the evening quickly passed, in counsel on one side, and good promise on the other.

Nancy watched her sister off by the early train next morning from the Great Western station; and Mary kept looking after her out of the window till her tears came so thick and fast she could no longer see the dear old red cloak of her mother's that Nancy wore. They little thought what their next meeting. would be; but God in wisdom, and doubtless in mercy, does not reveal to us what is to come to pass.

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"And what can you do?" said the farmer, looking at her.

"Well, well, I don't blame that," said the farmer. "You might give her a thing or

"I don't know, sir," said Maggie, not quite two," he remarked to his wife. understanding him.

"Can you milk? can you wash? can you churn? can you serve pigs? can you scrub?" asked Mrs. MacGregor; and to all Maggie answered yes.

"Yes, but how?" asked the farmer. Poor Maggie coloured and said, "Only as well as I can, sir."

"She's too little, not strong enough," said the farmer.

"If she's a good girl I will," said Mrs. MacGregor. "So you may come to-morrow morning, for I am in want of help at once."

Maggie looked up, her eyes full of tears, and said, "Ma'am, my father has had the fever."

Mrs. MacGregor and her husband looked at her and then talked to one another.

"Of course, you know I can't have you if there's been fever in your house!" said the farmer's wife.

"I don't know that," said his wife, who was much pleased with her. "You look very pale, "Yes, ma'am," said Maggie, the tears dropchild; have you been ill?" she asked. ping on her hands, "that was why I told you." "No, ma'am," said Maggie. "Well," said Mrs. MacGregor, "I will think "Because I wouldn't take you for any sake about it, and you may come in the morning; if

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we send you back it will be with a present, but maybe we shall keep you."

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home and told her tale, and the farmer that night inquired what sort of people the Blairs were. The next morning when Maggie appeared at the door he let her in with a smile on his face.

"I find that your father has lost the fever some time," he said, "so we mean to venture. Shall I tell you why? Because you have been taught truth, and honesty, and industry; and they are more in our eyes than all the fine clothes or strength of the girls we've turned. away."

So Maggie was hired, and a good master and mis

tress were Sandy

into the house if you had had the fever," said MacGregor and his wife; and in addition to Mrs. MacGregor.

Maggie looked down, but she said nothing. "And you haven't had the fever ?" said Mrs. MacGregor.

"No, ma'am, I've not been ill at all," said Maggie.

Then the farmer and his wife talked together, and when they had done Mrs. MacGregor said, "I think I will try you; but surely your father can get you more decent clothes?"

"No, ma'am, he is very poor," said Maggie.

"But the shop would trust him till you got your wages," said the mistress.

"We never go in debt," said Maggie.

this, her good name got places for her two little sisters when they grew older: and what do you think they set their hearts on doing as they got on in the world? why, on saving their money to buy back their father's cow, and they did it too.

They prospered every way, and often said one to another, "We owe it all to father and mother; what they taught us has been better to us than silver or gold: rich people may grow poor, and great people may come down in the world, but the wise in heart never lose their treasure: and they taught us where to get this wisdom, and showed us how to live accordingly."

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